


GHS Fic WIPs

by artificiallyawful



Category: Gregory Horror Show, ghs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:07:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24396247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificiallyawful/pseuds/artificiallyawful
Summary: A collection of GHS fics I haven't finished... Some of these may be finalized in the future and posted separately, but I'm pretty bad about getting my writings done. Warnings are provided in the notes for each chapter.
Relationships: Gregory/Hell's Chef
Comments: 10
Kudos: 4





	1. a nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why were you crying?"
> 
> A pause. Gregory searched for his words, "James--" he hesitated, staring into the darkness for a moment, "you know when you get those scary dreams? The really bad ones?"
> 
> ... "Did you have a bad dream, grampa?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mothers, (family) abuse, trauma, descriptions of suffocation/choking.
> 
> Completion status: a good chunk is written, beginning is finished, ending incomplete, words in brackets are pending for change, unrevised, spelling errors
> 
> edit: literally so fuckign sorry for the amount of spelling and grammar errors ASKDLKASKDSD how embarrassing 

Her voice clattered around in his head, banging against each wall and bouncing around, his head pounded and ached. She screamed and yelled and swore--told him to "get back here," to stop "running away," and "being so difficult"--spitting venom with every word.

He didn't dare cease his desperate escape, but with every step forward, he felt pulled back and slowed down. Arms flailed hopelessly as he pushed through what felt like water. Ragged breaths, wobbly legs--like he was running in a pool; toes barely reaching the bottom, unable to propel himself--each stroke sent him backwards--and she was catching up. Trailing on him, she was getting closer. Closer. Awful, terrible things swirled around in his mind--the horrible things she would do if she could just get ahold of him by the tail and yank him back into her wicked hands.

He cried and cried--the water only got thicker, more like jelly now. His sobs should have drowned out the furious screaming, but she only grew louder. It was almost as if he could feel her jagged nails digging into his arms. Snot smeared on his face, hot tears down his cheeks--he put all his might into pushing through the viscous trap around him.

And then it was quiet. There was no more furious yelling, no more spiteful names, no more threats. His crying ceased and the pool around him washed away, and with it something his childish mind didn't have a name for. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked around, trying to find his mother. She stood a ways behind him and he could see an alien tenderness in her gaze.

"Oh, I'm sorry, baby. Mama didn't mean any of those things. Please, come here, Gregory. Come hold Mama's hand now..."

Her arms opened wide. Her soft voice reached him dejected and unfamiliar--but welcomed. There was hesitation, but he wasn't to waste another moment. Rushing forward, crying for his mother, he flung himself into her arms and clutched the fabric of her dress as though she would disappear. She wrapped her arms around him and lay bony hands over his small, shaking shoulders. He sobbed into the scruffy folds of her dress, clawing at it, sobbing out for her. She shushed him and held him closer. And closer.

Too close. He couldn't move his head away from the dress. His nose pressed further and further and he realized he couldn't get a breath in. He couldn't breathe. He pushed away but she held him strong. He needed to breathe. Didn't she know that? Why wasn't she letting go? Oh, God--she wasn't letting go.

Small fists batted frightfully against her sides and arms, he pried at her hands--nothing was letting him up. He felt a fire grow up his back and to his neck. It burned so bad. His head spun. She needed to let go, he needed to breathe. The stinging got worse, his hits got weaker, and his throat clenched. He puffed rapidly, trying so hard to suck in some air, but all he got was heat. He was burning up--it hurt so bad. He felt as though he was spinning faster and faster, deeper and deeper in a whirlwind of fire. She needed to let go. Let go. Let go, Mama, please.

\---

His eyes shot open wide. His neck was still on fire and his hands were clammy, but the rest of him felt ice-cold. His heart pounded wildly and he took a breath with hesitance, afraid he would still be unable to get anything into his lungs. Thankfully, dusty air flooded his chest and a familiar smell filled his nose. He stared out into the darkness, a small candle light flickering into view. The candle upon the dresser which he always kept alight, for otherwise James would throw a fit--not because the child was afraid of the dark, of course.

His room. He was in his room. Void of Mama. He was in his bed with his blanket and his pillow. James slept on the bed Gregory lay facing away from. All was quiet, and right, and calm. He was okay, he was safe. 

With immediate threats at ease, Gregory unclenched his fists and lay his trembling hands over his eyes, crying as silently as he could into them. Though, not quiet enough, for James called out in the dark room. Oddly, no sleepiness carried through in his voice, "Grampa?"

Upon hearing the call, Gregory stopped his crying and opened his eyes again. He breathed shakily, removing his hands from his sunken face. He lay facing away from James, so he propped himself up and turned slightly towards his grandson.

"Are you crying?"

The old rat cleared his throat, and with a hoarse, quivering voice replied, "What are you doing up at this hour, young man?"

"I woke up..." James said in a mumble. No doubt, Gregory must have made some distressing sounds in his sleep and disturbed the young rat.

"Do you need water or something?

"No."

"Then go back to sleep."

Gregory rest his head back upon his pillow and sighed. He laced his fingers into one another, pulling his knees up closer to his frame, breath shallow. Silence dragged on until James spoke again, "Why were you crying?"

A pause. Gregory searched for his words.

"James--" he hesitated, staring into the darkness for a moment, "you know when you get those scary dreams? The really bad ones?"

"The kind where I have to crawl in bed with you to fall back asleep?"

Gregory hummed in agreement.

"Did you have a bad dream, grampa?"

Gregory did not need to reply, nor did he want to. His mouth felt dry.

"Do you need to sleep in my bed?"

Tears bubbled in Gregory's eyes, but he fought them down, letting out a sad chuckle instead, "No thank you, James." 

Apparently, that wasn't a sufficient answer for the child, for next thing Gregory heard was shuffling and the soft patting of footsteps over to his bed. James crawled upon the mattress and Gregory scooted over to accompany his presence. Sheets pulled back, socks kicked at the blanket, wrinkles had to be flattened out, pajamas required twisting, turning--James took an awfully long time to get situated.

Blinking away threatening tears, his grandfather laughed weakly, "Are you comfy yet?"

James rested his head on the old rat's chest and hummed, content. A trembling, frail hand laid upon James' head and gently brushed through his tangled hair. The touch, the smell, the warmth--familiarity, protection, safety; grandfather.

The absence of the hand from his hair and a sob deep in Gregory's chest alerted James, "Why are you still crying, grampa?"

Hand to his mouth, Gregory bit into his knuckle as not to cry, and shut his eyes tightly. Laying his hand upon his chest, he took in a deep, rough breath, "Its hard to explain, James." 

Small hands held onto his pajamas tighter, "Well, it's okay now. The nightmare's over. I'm here."

Those exact words had been said by Gregory to James many times in odd hours of the night, and it was hearing that echo that broke the dam down. Each sob wracked Gregory's body, his head laid weakly on this pillow that was now fouled with tears and drool and snot.

James held on tighter, head gently resting on Gregory's chest. Every moment or so he would mutter comforting words, trying to soothe his grandfather. James couldn't have realized it, but it only caused Gregory to cry [harder].

[...] [gregorys reflection about mama]  
[...] [gregorys reflection about james]  
[...] [calming down, sleeping]


	2. a meal / a dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps it was the lighting, perhaps it was Chef's presence, or even the easy, simple task of picking up dirty plates, but the air was cheery and Gregory seemed to be in better spirits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief knife mention, brief fire mention, brief blood mention, not a lot to tag--this ones pretty wholesome.
> 
> Completion status: beginning has been written but i don't feel like sharing it publicly--needs to be edited, ending incomplete, semi-revised, a good portion is written.

...

There was silence for a long moment before Chef finally spoke again, "Come. Pick up the plates with me."

Numb and silent, Gregory pushed himself out of the creaky, old wooden chair and trailed behind the large figure, the heels of his boots clacking throughout the echoing house with its tall ceiling. The lobby and conference room had now emptied of its guests and left bloodied plates scattered about the two big tables. Frail, old hands stacked clattering dishes on top of each other and set them on the metal cart that was wheeled around to transport items from the kitchen to elsewhere and vise-versa.

It was all quiet except for the quaint little tune from the stereo that played in the conference room. Normally, when Gregory would help the Chef pick up dinner's remnants, he would be giddily chattering on and on, often to the point of embarrassing himself. Strangely, tonight Gregory's lips felt glued together. He didn't have the energy to speak--and even stranger yet, Chef filled the silence.

"You are quiet tonight."

A pause before a slight, nervous chuckle from the hobbling rat, and trying not to sound snarky, he replied with a "Yes. And you are not."

Chef couldn't hold back a small smile. Gregory was right, Chef had been rather talkative that day and the weeks prior as well, spending lots of time with the rat. Gregory could tell it was his way of trying to make up for things--that and Chef was simply just concerned.

They'd moved on to collecting dishes in the conference room. The music was louder there, and Gregory couldn't help but hum along with the familiar tune. 

"James learn to cut carrot today." Chef announced as he opened the kitchen door to put an armful of dirty dishes in the sink. When he stepped back out, Gregory hummed in question,

"Oh, did he now? I can't believe you trust that boy with a knife."

"You trust him with worse."

"A match is worse than a knife?"

"He set you on fire."

Gregory chuckled in reply but said no more.

Perhaps it was the lighting, perhaps it was Chef's presence, or even the easy, simple task of picking up dirty plates, but the air was cheery and Gregory seemed to be in better spirits.

The table was nearly cleared now, and Chef stood beside Gregory. Instead of picking up the bowl in front of him, Chef paused, setting it back onto the table cloth and looking to the rat beside him. A small, fragile hand grabbed the rim of a soup dish, but before it could be picked up off the table, Chef had gently set his large hand atop of Gregory's. Gregory went rigid, the air suddenly stiff, staring down at their hands. The rat could feel cherry red eyes gazing down towards him, tenderly, and Chef tugged softly on his wrist, pulling Gregory away from the bowl and the table. 

"Oh, Ch-hef, what are y-ou doing?" Gregory whined, not daring to look upward, for his chest was already pounding fast and meeting Chef's gaze would only make his heart jump right out of his throat.

Taking his other hand, Chef took a step forward and Gregory accompanied by moving backwards. Confused, wide-eyed, breath shaky, it took Gregory a moment to figure out the incredibly simple answer to his situation. He tried to focus on the music, but blood rushed in his ears, and he could only put his attention to the floor, trying to move his shoes in time with Chef's. Over and over, they stumbled and tripped, clashed awkwardly, but each time they met their mistakes with laughter, and the music only grew more pleasant, more welcomed. Neither of them had much of an idea how to dance, but nonetheless, they let themselves enjoy it. 

Gregory shook nervously, face aglow in red. Time to time, he glanced up to Chef, only to laugh and look back down, unable to handle the overwhelming gaze. The red eyes were soft, full of a gentleness Gregory was confident only he ever witnessed, so different from Chef's typical ruthless and frankly terrifying demeanor. 

With his small hand lifted up above his head, Chef urged Gregory to spin around, and the old rat obliged, stifling laughter as he turned around, slowly as not to crack one of his ancient hips. Once facing Chef again, he was [awkwardly] dipped backwards towards the floor, but considering Chef was so much taller than him, and his hands were in the wrong place, it didn't work out so well. Smitten, Gregory leaned his cheek into Chef's arm and looked up to him shyly. Quickly averting his eyes, they stood back up straight and continued to stumble around until the song had ended.

Now standing in the doorway to the lobby, Gregory cleared his throat and fumbled with his jacket, "Well, g-goodni-ght, Chef. Tonight was-- w-onderful. Thank you..." He breathed out nervously.

...


End file.
